CHAPTER XX
THE MECHANICAL CONNOISSEUR
Dr. Leslie, the Coroner, was an old friend of ours with whom we hadco-operated in several cases. When we reached his office we found Dr.Blythe there already, waiting for us.
"Have you found anything yet?" asked Dr. Blythe with what I felt wasjust a trace of professional pique at the fact that neither physicianhad been able to shed any light on the case so far.
"I can't say--yet," responded Craig, not noticing Blythe's manner, asfrom the piece of tissue paper in which he had wrapped them he producedthe broken bits of bottle.
Carefully he washed off the jagged pieces, as though perhaps some of theliquid the bottle had contained might have adhered to the glass.
"I suppose you have animals here for experiment?" he asked of Leslie.
The Coroner nodded.
"Chickens?" asked Craig with a broad smile at the double meaning.
"A Leghorn rooster," returned Dr. Leslie with a laugh.
"Good--bring him on," replied Craig briskly.
Quickly Kennedy shot a small quantity of the liquid he had obtained bywashing the bits of glass into the veins of the white Leghorn. Then hereleased the rooster, flapping about.
In a corner chanticleer stood, preening his feathers and restoring hisruffled dignity, while we compared opinions.
"Look!" exclaimed Kennedy a few minutes later, when we had almostforgotten the rooster.
His bright red comb was now whitish. As we watched, a moment later itturned dark blue. Otherwise, however, he seemed unaffected.
"What is it?" I asked in amazement, turning to Craig.
"Ergot, I think," he replied tersely. "At least that is one test for itspresence."
"Ergot!" repeated Dr. Leslie, reaching for a book on a shelf above him.Turning the pages hurriedly, he read, "There has been no experience inthe separation of the constituents of ergot from the organs of the body.An attempt might be made by the Dragendorff process, but success isdoubtful."
"Dragendorff found it so, at any rate," put in Dr. Blythe positively.
Running his fingers over the backs of the other books, Dr. Leslieselected another. "It is practically impossible," he read, "to separateergot from the tissues so as to identify it."
"Absolutely," asserted Dr. Blythe quickly.
I looked from one physician to the other. Was this the "safe" poison atlast?
Kennedy said nothing and I fell to wondering why, too, Dr. Blythe was sopositive. Was it merely to vindicate his professional pride at thefailure he and the Coroner had had so far with the case?
"I suppose you have no objection to my taking some of this sample of thecontents of the organs of her body, have you?" asked Craig at length ofDr. Leslie.
"None in the world," replied the Coroner.
Kennedy poured out some of the liquid into a bottle, corked itcarefully, and we stood for a few moments longer chatting over thedevelopments, or rather lack of developments of the case.
It was late when we returned to our apartment, but the following morningKennedy was up long before I was. I knew enough of him, however, to knowthat I would find him at his laboratory breakfastless, and my deductionwas correct.
It was not until the forenoon that Craig had completed the work he hadset himself to do as he puzzled over something in the interminablelitter of tubes and jars, bottles and beakers, reagents, solutions, andprecipitates.
"I'm going to drop in at Jacot's," he announced finally, laying off histhreadbare and acid-stained coat and pulling on the clothes more fittedfor civilization.
Having no objection, but quite the contrary, I hastened to accompanyhim. Jacot's was a well-known shop. It opened on Fifth Avenue, just afew feet below the sidewalk, and Jacot himself was a slim Frenchman,well preserved, faultlessly dressed.
"I am the agent of Mr. Morehouse, the Western mine-owner andconnoisseur," introduced Kennedy, as we entered the shop. "May I lookaround?"
"Certainement,--avec plaisir, M'sieur," welcomed the suave dealer, withboth hands interlocked. "In what is Mr. Morehouse most interested? Inpictures? In furniture? In--"
"In almost anything that is rare and beautiful," confided Craig, lookingJacot squarely in the eye and adding, "and not particular about theprice if he wants a thing, either. But I--I am particular--about onething."
Jacot looked up inquiringly.
"A rebate," Kennedy went on insinuatingly, "a commission onthe bill--you understand? The price is immaterial, but notmy--er--commission. Comprenez-vous?"
"Parfaitement," smiled the little Frenchman. "I can arrange all that.Trust me."
We spent an hour, perhaps, wandering up and down the long aisles of thestore, admiring, half purchasing, absorbing facts about this, that andthe other thing that might captivate the fictitious Mr. Morehouse.
Not satisfied with what was displayed so temptingly in the front of thestore, Kennedy wandered back of a partition apparently in search of somemore choice treasures, before Jacot could stop him. He turned over apainting that had been placed with its face toward the wall, as if forprotection. I recognized the subject with a start. It was Watteau'sFete!
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Kennedy in well-feigned ecstasy, just as Jacotcame up.
"Ah, but, M'sieur," interposed the art dealer, "that is only a copy--andnot for sale."
"I believe my friend, Mr. Faber, has a copy," ventured Craig.
"By a Miss Fleming?" asked Jacot quickly, apparently all interest now.
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. Was Jacot hinting at something known inthe trade?
"Might I photograph some of the things here to show Mr. Morehouse?"asked Craig a moment later. "I see several things in which I think hemight be interested."
"Surely," answered Jacot, then, after consideration, in which his beadyeye seemed to size up Kennedy, he added, sotto voce, craftily, "WouldMr. Morehouse be--er--interested in Watteau's Fete?"
My heart almost stopped beating. Were we really on the right track atlast?
Jacot leaned over confidentially to Kennedy and added, "Why not sell asan original, not this, but another copy--a--a--what you call it?--afake?"
I understood. Kennedy, having invited crooked dealing by his remarkabout the rake-off, was being approached about another crooked deal.
"A fake Watteau?" he asked, appearing to meet Jacot halfway.
Jacot nodded. "Why not? You know the same Botticelli belongs tocollectors in Philadelphia and Boston; that is, each has a picture andif one is genuine the other must be a fake. Possibly the artist paintedthe same picture twice. Why, M'sieur, there are Rubens, Hals, Van Dycks,Rembrandts galore in this country that hang also at the same timeabroad." Jacot smiled. "Did you never hear of a picture with a dualpersonality?"
Kennedy seemed to consider the idea. "I'll think it over," he remarkedfinally, as we prepared to leave, "and let you know when I come back tosnap some of the things for my principal."
"Well--of all brazen crooks!" I sputtered when we had gained FifthAvenue.
Kennedy shook his head. "We can't be sure of anything in this game. Doesit occur to you that he might perhaps think he was playing us forsuckers, after all?"
My mind worked rapidly. "And that that picture of Faber's is the realoriginal, after all?" I asked. "You mean that somehow a copy by MissFleming has come really to Jacot with instructions to palm it off onsome gullible buyer?"
"Frankly, Walter," he said, as we walked along, "I don't know what tothink. You know even the greatest experts sometimes disagree overquestions like this. Well, Walter, art is long and time is fleeting. Ifwe are ever to settle where that real Watteau is, we shall have toresort to science, I think."
That afternoon after a trip up to the laboratory, where Craig secured apeculiar and cumbersome photographic outfit, we at last found ourselvesaround at Faber's private gallery. Faber was out, but, true to hispromise, he had left word with his man, who admitted us.
Kennedy set to work immediately, before the painting, placing aninstrument which certainly
was not like a regular camera. I was furtherastonished, moreover, when Craig set up something back of the canvas,which he moved away from the wall. As nearly as I could make it out itconsisted of a glass bulb of curious shape. A moment later he attachedthe bulb to a wire that connected with a little rheostat or resistancecoil and thence, in turn, to an electric-light socket.
He switched on the electric current and the apparatus behind the picturebegan to sputter. I could not see very well what it was, but it lookedas if the bulb was suffused with a peculiar, yellowish-green light,divided into two hemispheres of different shades. The pungent odor ofozone from the electric discharge filled the room.
While Kennedy was working, I had noticed a little leather party boxlying on a table, as though it had been forgotten. It was not just thething one would expect in Faber's rooms and I looked at it more closely.On it were the initials "R. T." Had Rita Tourville visited him?
Craig had scarcely finished and was packing up his apparatus when weheard a noise outside. A second later, Faber himself entered, with Rita,evidently looking for something.
"Oh, yes, Rita,--here it is. Why, Kennedy--how are you? Did you get yourphotograph?"
Kennedy replied that he had, and thanked him.
It was easy to see Rita's pleasure at being with the young connoisseur,but at the sight of Craig I fancied for a moment that I saw a flash ofthat passionate resentment which had caused me to find a resemblancebetween the expression of her face and that of De Montespan in thepainting, a hint at what she would do or dare to protect the object ofher affections.
We departed shortly, leaving Rita and Faber deep in the discussion ofsome art topic.
It was not until late in the afternoon that we were able to revisitJacot's. He received us cordially, but Craig, by a whispered word ortwo, was able to postpone the answer to the clever proposal which mighthave been a trap prepared for us.
Craig, with a regular camera which he had brought also, set to worksnapping pictures and objects of art with reckless profusion, movingthem about to get a better light and otherwise consuming time.
At last came the opportunity he had been awaiting, when Jacot had acustomer in the front of the store. Quickly he set up the peculiarapparatus which he had used at Faber's before the copy of the Watteau inthe rear of the shop, switched on the electricity, and amid thesuppressed sputtering duplicated the work I had seen him do before.
As he was packing the apparatus up, I happened to glance toward thefront of the store. There were Leila and Jacot in earnest conversation.I whispered to Kennedy, and, a moment later, she caught sight of me,appeared not to recognize me, and left.
Jacot sauntered back to us, I thought, concealing his haste.
Before he could speak, Kennedy asked, "Who was that woman?"
He had finished packing up the apparatus and even if Jacot had heardsomething that caused him to change his mind, it was now too late tostop Kennedy.
"Why," hastened Jacot, apparently frank, "that is the maid of the MissFleming, the artist who has just died. She has come to me to see whetherI can get her a position with another artist."
"I thought I recognized her," remarked Kennedy. "I remember when I sawher once before that she had on a wedding ring. Doesn't her husbandsupport her?"
Jacot shrugged his shoulders. "She is looking for another position--thatis all I know," he said simply.
Kennedy picked up his apparatus.
"You will think over my proposition?" asked Jacot, as we left.
"And let you know in a day or two," nodded Kennedy.
As we walked up Fifth Avenue, I confess to have felt all at sea. Who hadthe real masterpiece? Was it Faber, or Jacot, or was it someone else? IfRita had warned Faber against us, and Leila had warned Jacot, which hadcopy and which original? Or were they both copies and had the originalbeen hidden? Had it been stolen for money or had some fiend with aknowledge of this mysterious ergot stolen it simply for love of art,stopping not even at murder to get it?